


A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

by YanaWrites



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, copious ammounts of swear words, gratuitous descriptions of cities at night, misunderstandings but but not of the relationship variety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23120425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YanaWrites/pseuds/YanaWrites
Summary: A long, wandering tale of bad luck and even worse communication. There's a "buy one get one" sale on jobs and boyfriends, and Kyoutani can't quite decide if a paycheck is worth putting up with Numai. Cats give surprisingly good advice, snakes don't. Insults are said lovingly; "I love you" is said insultingly. City nights are described in too much detail. Kyoutani gets a roommate he never asked for, despite living in a studio apartment. There's rich boys! Poor boys! Sad boys! Angry boys! Collect them all!
Relationships: Kyoutani Kentarou/Numai Kazuma
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

It’s crowded on the streets of Tokyo, even at night, and for a moment, Kyoutani thinks that maybe this is just how things are this close to the center of the city. Parents and children spill out from the theater, chattering like a nest of obnoxious songbirds during spring. I’m _hungry_ , the children call, their voices high, demanding like baby chicks when their mother has just returned to the nest. _Buy me that doll. I want candy. I want—_ And like songbirds, they stop singing when Kyoutani gets close. A wolf who wandered into the wrong flock. Kyoutani prefers it this way.

They part when he walks through the crowd, mothers pulling their children to their side, so they don’t get close. Maybe it’s because he moves quickly, head down and hood up, making no effort to weave through the masses. Or perhaps it’s because, from under the streetlights, all that’s visible of his face is a deep-set scowl. One that looks like he’s been wearing it since the day he was born. Scowls like Kyoutan’s tend to be the sort of expression that gets stuck if you keep it for too long. He’s grateful. This way, he doesn’t have to pay much attention to where he’s going.

Flashing lights, the kind from an old retro theater, blink above him, and his eyes flick up. A sign, bold black and white against the garish red of the theater reads: _Now Showing: The Fox and The Hound 3_. It’s a dumb kids movie, and Kyoutani grunts out something that might be a laugh if laughs were cynical and humorless. There’s something ironic about parents—ones who are always so strict about bedtimes and sleep schedules—letting their five-year-olds stay up for a midnight showing of something so insignificant.

He’s still looking up when it happens, and maybe if he’d been focused somewhere more useful it could have been avoided altogether. Kyoutani slams into someone moving fast in the opposite direction. There’s a flash of broad shoulders and blond hair, and suddenly the pavement is biting into the palms of Kyoutani’s hands. A startled breath knocks from his lungs, and the hood of his jacket slips back. The contents of Kyoutani’s backpack scatters, hemorrhaging a mix of protein bars, pencils, and notebooks from the broken zipper and out onto the sidewalk.

“Fuck.” The word slips out, regardless of the swarm of children surrounding him. Kyoutani scrambles to collect his things, shoving stuff into his backpack without much care for what or where it had rolled.

The man who had collided with him—some pampered looking guy who can’t be more than a few years older than Kyoutani himself—stands from where he had fallen, bending down to pick up his own things. A few gum wrappers, his phone (a new one that must have cost a fortune), some loose change. Kyoutani’s gaze catches on the freshly dyed blond mop of hair, styled in waves that look almost natural on top of his head. He frowns, running his fingers over his closely-cropped buzz cut before pulling his hood up once more.

“Watch it.” It’s a low grumble, the warning growl of a feral dog. 

He doesn’t stick around long enough to hear what he assumes is the other man’s mumbled apology. Instead, he shrugs on his backpack and walks through the circle of people that grew around them.

The street clears out a half a block down, and Kyoutani relaxes. His shoulders slump, and he stuffs his hands in his coat pockets. Most people that knew Kyoutani would consider him harsh, at best, but tonight he was downright sour. Long weeks of trying—and subsequently failing—to keep a job had landed in not one but two disappointments. 

The diner he works at, or maybe it would be more accurate to say _worked_ at, seemed to have a problem with his so-called “inability to create a positive customer experience”. Which really, how can anyone be expected to create a positive experience at a job like that? Customers changing their order right as he brings out their food, old ladies trying to set him up with their granddaughters, it was only a matter of time before he snapped. Luckily (although who it’s lucky for is up to debate), they fired him before he had the chance.

Kyoutani had seen the metaphorical smoke. It wasn’t a surprise. No, the surprise came when the interview he had scheduled for after his shift fell through. They took one look at his faded dress shirt, crisscrossed with wrinkles he couldn’t quite iron out, and then took a _second_ look at his not-quite-blond-anymore hair. It was doomed before he even opened his mouth. 

There’s a flash of headlights as a car speeds past, loud music spilling from the tightly-sealed windows. This late at night traffic slows to a dull trickle, and the nightlife creeps out. Loud, rowdy, calling at women through the relative safety of their car windows. Kyoutani isn’t a big fan of the bawking of songbirds, but he dislikes the steady dull thump of the cars’ shitty music even more. It feels like war drums, almost, getting louder and louder as it speeds by. The holler of obscenities is crude enough to make even the worst sinner blush. It sets him on edge again, and he adjusts his backpack as if it contains anything of value. 

“Hey, you!” There’s a voice that cuts through it all, and Kyoutani looks back on instinct. Fate, if there even is such a thing, is a sick fuck. He swears under his breath, turning forward again in hopes that it’s meant for someone in front of him. It isn’t.

Seconds later, he’s backed against the brick facade of a convenience store, staring down a pair of deep brown eyes and honey-blond hair as the stranger from before accuses him of stealing his wallet. Kyoutani’s spine scrapes against the wall as he takes another step back, hunching over as if to make himself look bigger by comparison. His head lowers, and his hands ball into fists inside his pockets. 

“I didn’t steal your goddamn wallet.” The words are spat out like old chewing gum, sticking to the pavement under Kyoutani’s shoes and fastening him where he stands. It’s like now that he’s acknowledged the situation he’s bound to see it through.

There’s something about the guy that gives him an air of self-importance. Maybe it’s the way he stands, or the annoying popped collar of his overcoat. Kyoutani lets his eyes flicker down to the guy’s shoes, pristine as if they’d just been pulled from the box. Everything, every _single_ thing about him somehow manages to piss Kyoutani off. 

“Who else could have possibly taken it?” The stranger’s voice rises with every word, and Kyoutani can’t help but think of a tea kettle that’s been left on the stove to heat up. 

Kyoutani shrugs. “Not my fuckin problem, rich boy.” He turns, ignoring the stranger’s protests and takes half a step before a hand shoots out and holds him back. Quick as lightning, and just as dangerous, Kyoutani twists his arm around, breaking the stranger’s hold and catching his wrist in an iron grip. “Don’t.” It’s a single word, but the amount of force Kyoutani puts behind it is enough to make the man flinch. He lets go, swinging his backpack off his shoulder and letting it fall at the space between their feet. There’s a pause, and tension sparks around them, so thick it feels static. “If you’re so sure, fine, take a look.” 

His fingers hold tight to the fraying handle of his backpack. It’s something like insurance, promising that as long as he’s got the handle in his grasp, nobody can run off with it. Although, he thinks as he looks down his nose at the once-blue fabric, there’s nothing to say the handle won’t rip off at the slightest bit of tension. The stranger hesitates, and then crouches down at Kyoutani’s feet, rifling through the contents of his bag. His movements are careful, and it’s hard to place if he’s trying to be gentle or if he just considers Kyoutani so beneath him that a single touch would render him tainted. Kyoutani decides the latter. 

One-by-one, the stranger sets Kyoutani’s belongings on the sidewalk, laying out a spread of crumpled receipts and granola bars. He pulls out the dark box of hair dye, and Kyoutani’s brow pinches together. For a split second he opens up his mouth to justify it, but then he stops and his mouth snaps shut in a way that probably makes him look like a rather angry fish. The stranger places the box with the rest of his things and digs to the bottom of Kyoutani’s bag. If it feels anything like it sounds, all that’s there is probably fast-food wrappers and plastic that Kyoutani is too lazy to throw away. 

After a moment, the stranger pulls his arm out. There’s a smooth sort of shape clutched tightly in his hands, with a sprawling form embossed on the surface. In the dim glow of the street lights, Kyoutani can catch the glint of an amber eye, set deep into the leather’s surface. It’s a wallet, thick and heavy with cards and loose change. Fuck. 

“Just so we’re clear,” There’s something icy in the stranger’s voice and he stands, looming over Kyoutani by a few inches. “are you still going with the ‘I didn’t take your wallet’ story?” 

Kyoutani grunts, “As if I’d steal something that looks like _that_.” It’s a bad habit, one that will probably get Kyoutani in trouble someday. The nearly compulsive snide remarks tossed out at every opportunity.

The stranger raises an eyebrow as if to say, “you’re _one to talk”_. He opens the wallet, taking a moment to check that everything is still safely in place. 

“It was an accident,” Kyoutani attempts. The stranger gives him a soft sort of snort, a little caustic. “It’s not my fault your shit got mixed up with mine.”

“I should call the police.” There’s something both tired and frustrated in the stranger’s voice. He finishes counting the bills and folds up his wallet, slipping it safely into the pockets of his coat. 

That would be just fucking perfect. If Kyoutani’s mood was sour before, it’s absolutely foul now. Nothing’s easier than job hunting with a criminal record. He can imagine it, walking into an interview and explaining that yes, he looks like a street thug but no, he’s not in the yakuza and that one charge of attempted robbery was all just a misunderstanding. If they turned him away on looks alone, they probably wouldn’t even let him in the door once the police are involved. 

The stranger sighs, tapping softly at his phone. It looks like he’s just texting. At the very least, Kyoutani hopes he’s just texting. He frowns, the glow from the screen casts his face in a blue light that makes him look almost spectral. “But it’s late, and I have things to do tomorrow. Everything’s still here.” The stranger makes half a turn before glancing back at Kyoutani. “Next time, if you’re going to steal something and get caught, at least own up to it.”

Something about the weight of the stranger’s eyes makes Kyoutani shift uncomfortably. He tugs at the hem of his jean jacket, more aware of the worn-out patches than he’s ever been before. Distressed. That’s what they call it when clothing has little rips in the fabric or when t-shirts grow soft and faded from years of use. If that’s the case, then just about everything Kyoutani owns is distressed. The guy turns away, answering a phone call as he disappears down the street. 

It’s a sweet and sour situation, and Kyoutani can still feel the aftertaste even after he’s collected his things and shouldered his bag. He turns down a side street, away from the bright lights of the main roads and down a little back alley. The city melts from brilliant neon to crumbling brick, paint chips off of signs worn down with age. It’s an older neighborhood. The apartment buildings have grown old and in need of work. Work, however, requires permits and permits cost money. And so the buildings here have fallen into a particular sort of disrepair that keeps the rent prices low and the neighborhood quiet. 

Kyoutani’s apartment is one of these cases. It’s a comfortable unit, one room—unless you count the bathroom separate. The kitchen is small, with just enough counter space for a cutting board, as long as the far edge hung over the sink. And a small table stood in the center of it. It was probably the most colorful thing in the apartment. Somewhere along the line, before the table found itself in Kyoutani’s apartment, someone had painted it a fleshy sort of color, right on the edge between muted pink and red. 

He slips his backpack off of his shoulders, setting it down on the table to fish out the hair dye. On the box, there’s a photo of a model, smiling. Her long hair flows past her shoulders, shiny and dark. Kyoutani scowls, letting his jacket and hoodie fall to the floor as he makes his way to the postage-stamp bathroom. _Dark ash brown_ , the box reads. Below the label, on the back, are the instructions, and Kyoutani gets about three and a half sentences in before deciding that hair dye is hair dye. It should all work the same anyway. He pulls off his shirt, tossing it out of the door and in the general direction of his laundry basket. It hits the was with a soft thump, landing atop of an ever-growing pile of clothing that needs to be washed. 

From the apartment next door, Kyoutani can hear the forecaster rattle on about tomorrow’s weather. He tears open the box, letting the dye and gloves fall onto the counter. It’s an easy process, one that Kyoutani is familiar with from years of bleaching his hair. This time, though, it feels different. The blond looks shitty now, grown out to the point where only the tips of his hair are lighter than the rest, but he still hesitates. The bottle inches away from his scalp. 

“Fuck it.” Kyoutani squeezes the dye into his roots, making methodical lines in the short strands of his hair. There’s no going back now. He massages the color all the way through, twisting around in the mirror to be sure that he hasn’t missed a spot. 

Thirty minutes and a few protein bars later and Kyoutai finds himself back in the bathroom, rinsing out his hair in the bowl of his sink. Somehow, although many would say it’s impossible, he manages to look more daunting with his hair an inky brown. Kyoutani is all angles, sharp features and sharper tongue. He looks pale now, in comparison, and it makes the dark circles under his eyes seem like a deep purple. 

Kyoutani sighs, finishing with his hair and letting his towel drape over his shoulders as he makes himself dinner. He eats in relative silence, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation from the other side of his apartment wall. It makes for a soothing sort of babble as he scrolls through page after page of job listings. Most of the jobs are horse shit. Babysitter, maid cafe hostess, receptionist. They almost aren’t worth considering. Man, however, is a slave to capitalism. Not to mention there’s only so many missed rent checks his landlord can handle. Kyoutani scowls at the laptop screen, applying to any job that’ll take him, and even some that won’t. 

***

The next day he gets an email, or rather, he gets a few emails, but one catches his attention more than the others. It reads:

_From:_ [ _N.Inc@ymail.com_ ](mailto:N.Zuma@ymail.com)

_To:_ [ _Kyouken@ymail.com_ ](mailto:Kyouken@ymail.com)

  
  


_Thank you for applying to our security personnel team. We appreciate your interest. Attached are some files that we ask all prospective employees to fill out during the hiring process. Please complete the necessary documentation and return the forms so we can run a mandatory background check. Additionally, a representative from our hiring office will be in touch to arrange an interview date and time._

_We look forward to hearing from you,_

_N inc. HR_

A grin cuts across Kyoutani’s face, lopsided and hopeful. There’s something a little bit lighter to him as he goes about his morning. The protein bar he has for breakfast tastes less like chalk, and he finds an extra stash of tea in the back of his pantry. It’s quiet, and for once, Kyoutani finds himself indulging in an episode of _The Unmarried Man_. He curls further into his lumpy couch, balancing his laptop on his knees so he can wrap both hands around his mug. Warm summer days have long since faded into the chill of early fall, and Kyoutani has yet to find it in himself to switch on the heater. Thankfully, he’s always been one to run hot, and the relative warmth from his tea is enough to keep out the chill. 

Kyoutani gets a call sometime in the late afternoon. The buzz of his cell phone pulls his attention away from a never-ending stream of job listings. He answers it with a greeting that would have been polite if Kyoutani wasn’t the one saying it. It was a short conversation, and within a few minutes he’s mumbling his thanks and hanging up. 

Chainsaw—a decidedly smudgy looking cat that wasn’t quite Kyoutani’s, but also spent far too much time around him to be anyone else’ s—paws at his balcony door. He grunts, moving to let her in. She pads through the room, jumping onto the kitchen counter to scratch at one of the cabinets. It’s become a routine of sorts. Chainsaw walks into the apartment as if she owns it, like the _No Pets!_ rule doesn’t apply to her, and Kyoutani feeds her a can of the best cat food the convenience store can offer. He clears off the table and sets a plate down on the far side. Chainsaw hops up on a chair, her wide green eyes following the movement of Kyoutani’s arm as he tips out the food onto the plate. Her tail swooshes back and forth. 

“I’ve got an interview.” He says to nobody in particular, and definitely _not_ to the cat. 

Chainsaw looks up from her dinner and eyes him in a way that almost says “ _about time”_. 

There’s something about talking to a cat that makes Kyoutani feel a little foolish—childlike, almost, although the word hasn’t been used to describe him in a long time. But saying it out loud makes it feel real. He slides into the chair across from Chainsaw and lays his arms on the table, letting his head rest atop of them like there isn’t a single bone in his body. “Don’t look so skeptical. I give you food.”

Chainsaw doesn’t acknowledge the comment. Instead, she flicks her tail and lowers her head back to the plate.

**Author's Note:**

> If you can't tell, a lot of my writing is inspired by Maggie Stiefvater's book series "The Raven Cycle", so there may or may not be a few different references to that here as well. 
> 
> Special thank you to Lex, who beta read this hot mess that I call "writing".


End file.
